Meeting the Legends

“Frugality includes all other virtues.”  

                                   Cicero

My husband used to tell of a fellow grad student who was famous for his frugality. If Cicero was right, this man was downright godly. When it was his turn to buy a round, he suddenly remembered he had to be somewhere. In four years, no one caught him picking up a check. Despite a long and distinguished academic career, it was his gift for protecting assets for which he was best known. ‘Twas legendary. I had never met this person but enjoyed hearing the stories when his former grad school buddies got together. This kind of behavior was well out of my wheelhouse. I come from a family in which arms have been lost fighting for the check. People arrange days in advance to make sure they get the bill at a restaurant; that is not hyperbole.

One day, this fellow called and said he and his wife were coming to visit. They asked if they could stay at our house. Of course, they could. After all, he was an old college buddy of my husband’s, and I wanted to meet the star of so many tales. I assumed he had outgrown his reputation since he was very successful and quite well off.

The couple arrived on schedule. They were serious sorts, very nice, but perhaps best suited to being extras at a movie funeral. Professional mourners. Sober in the midst of gaiety. Not given to fits of laughter. Well contained. Escapees from a Grant Wood painting. Dour, and not just any dour, but dour as the Scots say it, to rhyme with sewer.

The woman wanted to go to some auctions, but she didn’t want to put miles on her rental car. So, I spent a long day driving her around the Amish countryside, going from auction to auction. At the last one, she wanted to buy some blue canning jars but the lots were too big. “Could we bid together and then split them?” Thus, we became proud owners of enough blue jars to accommodate all the pickles and half the beets in Iowa. Back home, recovering from the heat and driving, I looked out the window and saw this woman lining up the jars in the driveway. She then cherry-picked about 20 of them, leaving me a terrific collection of cracked, chipped, and outright dangerous vessels. I put them in the garage and snickered a little. Later, a dear friend of theirs joined us for dinner and saw the jars. She said she’d like to have just one. Our guest went to the garage, produced one of my compromised jars, and sold it to her long-time friend for $5. We had paid $15 for about 50 of them.

Near the end of their visit, we held a party so this couple could see all their friends without traipsing all over town. The woman suggested she’d like to contribute something to the party since we had hosted them all week. She chose a fancy English trifle dessert. She spent the afternoon building it, using ingredients I had on hand. She found nearly everything she needed in our cupboards and fridge –the flour, eggs, cream, jam, sugar, vanilla, almonds–but was saddened to learn we had no strawberries on hand. Off she went to the store and returned with a big bag of frozen berries. And then, what did my thrifty guest do? She  gave me the bill so I could reimburse her. It’s always good when you meet a legend who does not disappoint.  

Finally, their visit was drawing to an end. “Let us take you out to dinner to thank you for your hospitality,” they said. Off we went, our guests, our family of five, and a child visiting our oldest son. They chose a pizza place. We enjoyed a nice dinner, and then I saw the check being transported across the dining room on its little tray. It was like seeing the Magna Carta approach our table. I was about to see an historical event­: they were picking up a check! They perused the pizza bill, then promptly prorated it. We were told our share would be 1/8^th of bill and 1/8^th of the tip; after all, our son had brought a guest. Turned out to be more of an hysterical event.

We had several more visits over the years; I can assure you that first one was not an aberration. These actually were very kind and decent folks. My guess is if you needed a kidney, they’d happily give you one. Plus, over the years, they have provided many entertaining stories and belly laughs for many people. And, isn’t it a mercy to the world that they found one another? Truly, how often do you get to meet the stuff of legends?

INTERSECTIONS

PART 4

No, I Didn’t Have Favorites, but . . .

The need for hospice care knows no boundaries. We cared for families of every description and in every situation. They lived in mansions and in cars. They were Father Knows Best and Maury Povitch’s Worst. They were quietly accepting and railing loudly. One day, I was called by a physician, who was referring his patient to hospice. His final comment was, “And good luck to you guys!” This physician was an experienced oncologist who had referred many, many patients but had never said anything like that before. His comment gave me pause.

The patient’s wife let me in. She looked exhausted. From the entryway, one could see through the dining room into the living room. It was like looking at a stage with a living room set and a play in progress. There was a hospital bed positioned in a bay window, a very thin middle-aged man in bed with pumps and IV poles nearby. He was gesturing wildly, yelling, swearing, and tossing the sheets about. Two men, his best friends, stood by the bed trying to talk to him. “Good luck to you guys,” indeed.

Greg was reacting to his dire situation in a completely understandable way. I have no idea why this isn’t more common, but in fact it isn’t. Some people have occasional angry episodes, but Greg was on a tear day and night from all reports. He was furious with his doc for “giving up on me.” He had made quite the scene in the hospital and not just when he was told that his treatments were not working. He had been taking on the entire health care team from receptionists to physicians since his diagnosis. His family and friends were completely spent, saturated with his anger and tantrums. You can imagine how Greg felt about meeting a hospice nurse.

Greg had a feeding pump unlike any I had encountered. There are so many kinds of pumps. We just learn to figure one out, and then they come out with a new one. As I made a few attempts to change the bag on this pump, Greg honed in on me like a sharp-shinned hawk on a limping mouse. He took me out. He questioned my ability to do anything. His friends attempted to calm him. I worked to become calmer as he revved up his fury. Inside, I went all Cuisinart, but I didn’t let it show.
When I walked into the social workers’ office, they looked at my face and raised all six of their eyebrows. This was one case I was happy to hand to them and to our chaplain. Another nurse would be Greg’s primary nurse. They all were in for a ride.  

Over the months, the social workers and chaplain performed a miracle with Greg; not on Greg, but with him. He did his work with their expert guidance and patience. In my twenty years as a nurse, I had never seen such a transformation. He became a calm, accepting, grateful man. His family was thankful to the point of tears. What this team did will affect Greg’s wife and children and his friends forever.

After Greg’s death, I received a note from his referring physician, a man was exceptionally dedicated to his patients, but he was not easy to work with. He was patient with his patients but reserved a difficult side for his colleagues, including us. Almost every call from him was a complaint. He was one of those people who could give a compliment and somehow tag on a little dig at the end. But this note. This note. It is one I kept taped on the back of my door for my entire tenure at hospice. “I want to thank each of you at hospice for what you did for Greg. I would not have believed it was possible. Nothing short of a miracle. What you do is important. Keep up the good work.” This doc went to see many of his patients at their homes, something unheard of in a major medical center. He had stopped to see Greg and received a heartfelt apology for past behavior and a completely unexpected expression of gratitude. Greg had bestowed a gift of peace on this  man that left him stunned and profoundly moved. It erased the angst their past encounters had buried in this physician’s chest.

Social workers and chaplains, I wish I could make each of you a superhero cape. Quiet little miracles take place every day at your hands, and this one was especially sweet.

On the record

Second Edition

Someday, when I’m sitting in the nursing home talking about my life, I know there will be sad nods and eyes full of pity. They will attribute my warblings to age and a shriveling brain. So, time to get some of the less believable events in my life on the record before they can be dismissed as the  ramblings of a confused elder. Unless it’s too late . .

 

Hill Street in Ann Arbor is known as sorority and fraternity row. It’s a wide, meandering street lined with landscaped lawns, plantation-like Greek houses, and towering trees that have overseen the Greekly students since the inception of the University of Michigan in 1837. But, on the corner of Hill and Olivia Streets sits Henderson House. Henderson House is a lovely, large brick home, a co-op dorm that houses young women who need a financial break. In return, they do the cooking and cleaning. We, the riff raff, lived among the wealthiest students in the world.

One year, I was the social chairman (there weren’t chairwomen or chairs back then.) I received the calls for babysitters, window washers, dates for sailors on leave, and such. Just before final exams my sophomore year, a woman called and said she needed four women to be servers for her husband’s surprise birthday party. She lived four blocks down Olivia and would pay us $50 each for the evening. Tuition was $90 a semester, and I made $1.35 an hour as a hospital clerk, so I was doing a happy dance in the phone booth at the end of the hall. The woman said she would furnish our uniforms and pay to have our hair and nails done. It took about five minutes to get 3 other volunteers.

The afternoon of the party, we were all parading around the living room with newly painted nails and upswept hairdos when the woman dropped off four boxes with our uniforms. “See ya at 5:00,” she warbled over her shoulder. We tore open the boxes to find Playboy Bunny outfits. They were sparkly and feathery and very small. When we were able to speak again, we discussed the validity of verbal contracts and such, but it was 4:00 p.m., and we were due at the party in an hour. We went upstairs to don the “uniforms.” 

First, there were the black, fishnet stockings. When you wear those with high heels, they grate your feet like Parmesan cheese. Then, it was time to put on the tiny pieces of satin. We looked in the mirror, peering out between our pushed-up boobs. We turned around. There they were: four large and fluffy bunny tails. Bunny ears and feathery wristlets were the final touches.

Five o’clock, full sunlight on Hill Street. The front door opened, and out poured four Bunnies into normal pedestrian traffic. We had no car, so we had to parade down Olivia Street. No one gives Bunnies credit for walking in those steel-wool net stockings and high heels. We wobbled along, disrupting post-game traffic all along our route.

Our first task was to set up hors d’oeuvres. Here we were, all bunnied up, in the back room being scullery maids. During the party, we carried trays and drinks to faculty members whom we hoped never to see again. We were told that the birthday boy had composed Frosty the Snowman, though I’ve never been able to corroborate that. He did have a gorgeous grand piano. The evening ended at 11:00 p.m.with the glam squad doing dishes, collecting our fifty bucks, and limping barefoot back to Henderson House and our beds. One can only be grateful that there were no cell phones back then. Happy Birthday, Frosty.

👯👯

On the record

First Edition

Someday, when I’m sitting in the nursing home talking about my life, I know there will be sad nods and eyes full of pity. They will attribute my warblings to age and a shriveling brain. So, time to get some of the less believable events in my life on the record  before they can be dismissed as the  ramblings of a confused elder. Unless it’s too late . . .

 

I had spent two weeks in the Miskitia jungle in Honduras at a medical clinic. I loved the little village, the peaceful and smiling people, the gratitude they had for every mango that fell from a tree. Every day started from scratch; pick the grain, grind it, make the bread. Fetch the water from the river. Along with the incredible hardship and deprivation came this freedom from decision-making. You did only what was needed to survive and then you went to bed. I heard not one complaint. I saw only love and gentleness with the children. Young and old sat quietly for tooth extractions without medication. Maybe one tear was shed. Some people were sent home likely to lose their lives for lack of  basic, simple medication. We could give them what we had, but after that? It was a beautiful experience, but the trip home was an entirely new and unexpected adventure.

We were taken out in long boats. I don’t know what was in the river, but I was careful to keep my elbows in. Then, we were loaded onto dump trucks and driven from pothole to pothole with little or no road in between. I was sure my kidneys would break clean off their stalks. We arrived at the dirt airstrip and were loaded onto one plane that looked like a mosquito and also a DC3. I was on the DC3 with eleven others. We sat on benches along the sides of the plane, strapped in all John Wayne style. In between our rows was a huge barrel marked “gasolina.” I’m a clever girl, so I figured that out. Didn’t seem like the best idea, but whaddya gonna do? Not smoke, that’s one thing you’re not gonna do, except the “attendant” was leaning against the barrel lighting up. The attendant was in camos and combat boots and had a rifle strapped to his back. Peanuts, anyone? A similar individual was piloting the plane and appeared to be about 16 years old. There was no copilot.

About 5 minutes into the flight, there was an explosion and the plane lurched. I will never forget the eyes of the med student sitting across from me. They were enormous, fixed and dilated. I took my journal and placed it inside my shirt. Should my remains not be completely incinerated, I wanted my family to know this had been one of the best experiences of my life. We pointed out the window at the smoking engine and consulted the soldier, who appeared not to notice the issue. “Oh, that,” he said through our interpreter. “It’s nothing. Just a little stick hit it.” A little stick floating along at 5,000 feet?

I looked out the window and noticed the trees getting larger and larger. We were going down. I recalled seeing photos on the news of charred airplane shapes on wooded mountain sides. Then, we hit the ground in what turned out to be a landing of sorts, all intact. We disembarked, and by that, I mean we stampeded off the plane. As we stood on the field, really in a field, they opened the cargo door and unloaded our gear, boxes of fruit, a crude sort of coffin, and–I kid you not–a gigantic man in an orange jumpsuit with wrists handcuffed behind his back and feet in chains. Back into the dump trucks we went. We were told it would take 3 days to get parts for the plane

We were delivered to our hotel to wait for the plane to be repaired. Our hotel was a Honduran army base. It consisted of several long, concrete buildings, open at either end without doors. They looked exactly like those hog confinement buildings on big corporate farms. There were windows but no glass or screens. There were rows of army-style cots, and we settled in, wondering what might be living in those scratchy blankets.

We were beckoned to a building where meals were served and were joined by some teenage soldiers. They were delighted to have company, being stationed in what appeared to be thousands of acres of jungle. It was 110 degrees, but they wore full-on fatigues, combat boots, and hats. After a dinner of red beans and rice, which we’d had 3 times a day for two weeks, we sat around the table and played games. And this is the part I want on the record now in case I mumble about it in a decade or two while slurping my pureed chicken. We taught them the card game Spoons. In this card game, when you get a certain hand you surreptitiously take a spoon from the center of the table and keep it until someone notices. In this particular version, when you got the spoon, you moistened it and stuck it on your nose, where it hung until someone saw it or it fell off. I have this permanent snapshot in my head: young boys in army uniforms sitting across from me, rifles on their backs, spoons stuck on their noses, laughing their heads off. I remember thinking it might be good to let them win. I have relatives who are unarmed and dangerous when they lose at cards, so in retrospect, playing guys with rifles seems risky. In fact, it was unmitigated fun. And, it was a moment.

Three days later, we boarded the same plane. I figured it was now held together with actual airplane glue from a model plane kit. Off we went (with who-knows-what in the hold) to Tegucigalpa, then on to Austin. From there, it was off to Chicago where, at midnight, my last leg to Iowa was cancelled. You can bet there was no griping at the airport counter from this passenger.

On the record!

Driving Miss Crazy

 

My mother liked to talk. If she was reading the newspaper, so were you. She simply had to read it to anyone remotely within earshot. Just before our second child was born, she asked if we had picked a name for the baby. When I said we had not, she began reading names from the Ann Arbor phone book. There were 100,035 people in Ann Arbor at that time, so you can imagine how the afternoon went. The worst thing is we actually chose one of those names. No, the worst thing is that that name was on page 372. Everything interested her. I cannot recall a time when she wasn’t taking an evening class, and she was always excited about what she had learned and ready to share it. All of it. She was not a Cliff Notes kinda gal.

One holiday weekend, my mother and mother-in-law both were visiting. My mother-in-law liked to chat a bit, too When the two of them were together, it was a contest to see who could spin the most and the best tales. My husband performed a Lutheran mitzvah and took them for a drive around the German Amana Colonies so I could rest my ears. Two hours later, he came back. I thought perhaps he’d been mugged by a mad zither player or had some bad sauerkraut. He was not looking well at all. “What happened?” I asked. He told me both mothers read everything along the 15-mile route: traffic signs, for sale signs, mailboxes, billboards, store names, garage sale signs, and bumper stickers, and my mother had turned around backwards and read the ones facing the other way.

My relatively new brother-in-law was chosen to drive my mother a couple hundred miles to a family wedding. Poor thing didn’t know why he’d had this honor bestowed upon him. After a 250 miles soliloquy, she had to stop to breathe. Then, she turned to him and said, “You don’t talk much, do you?”

When the entire Michigan group was driving to Iowa City for the football game, there was no drawing of straws or rock-paper-scissors game; absolutely no one could face 16 hours in the car with my mom, especially when she was excited about a fun adventure. But, we wanted her to come because she loved these gatherings. So, we hired a friend of mine to drive to Michigan, bring her to Iowa , and then return her home. Got that? My entire extended family was coming from the same place she was, but no one could face that trip with her. I tell you this in case you think I am exaggerating her loquaciousness. I was very honest with my friend about the task he faced, telling him the driving was not going to be his biggest challenge. “I’ll be fine,” he said. I was busy cooking for the gang when his first call came. Oh, no, I thought; they’d only been on the road about two hours. “How’s it going?” I asked. Since he was in the car with her, all he could say was, “Oh, my. Oh, my my my.” No matter what I asked, he just said, “Oh, my.” They had 6 more hours to go. Money well spent, I’d say. It was an adventure we came to call Driving Miss Crazy.

My sister, my daughter, and I were driving home from Oregon after a wonderful Sierra Club trip. My mother had been on a trans-Canada train ride with Elderhostel. We were to collect her in Eugene and bring her home. From Oregon to Michigan via Iowa. My other sister had also been on our trek, but said she had to fly home to get back to work. (Uh huh.)The rest of us got in the car and off we went with my mother. And, off she went. She had been alone on her trip and had much to report. After a couple hours, I said, “My ears need a little break. Maybe you could read or take a little nap.” Those in the back seat were pretending to sleep, but I could see them stifling smiles and elbowing one another. My request was not granted. By the end of the first hour, she had only covered her trip from Michigan to Windsor; she was still talking about getting to the train. I said that truly, my ears were worn out and she needed to catch a little nap or read a book. At this point, I believe my tone was still quite conversational. As we sped through flat eastern Oregon, she gave her report on Ontario. By the time she reached Saskatchewan, I could take no more. I pulled over on the interstate, turned to my mother, and said, “If you do not stop talking for a little while, I will put you out of the car.” You think that was mean, right? But, I may as well have said the President was missing and Patrick Swayze married The Queen of Ethiopia. It had no impact whatsoever. This trip was 1,916 miles. By the time we hit Iowa City, I looked mildly deranged. Oh, my, indeed. I dropped off my daughter and then, off we went to return my mother to her home on the far side of Michigan, an additional 8-hour drive.

When she finally moved to assisted living, my mother called and told me they’d given her a job. She was made volunteer receptionist in the physical therapy room. That was one wise social worker who thought of that. My mom had been the school secretary, so she knew everyone in town, their histories and hysteries. She had the dirt on everyone. When I came to visit, I heard her talking and stayed out of sight around the corner. She was sitting at the desk, directing people here and there, telling them she had their grandchild in school or knew their husband, the shop teacher. I listened to her shaking down everyone waiting for PT. No one got to the whirlpool with being debriefed by Sylvia. She was in hog heaven.

Had she not had to give up a full-ride scholarship to support her mother and herself, I think my mother might have been a fine journalist or interviewer. She would have asked question after question. Idi Amin would have waved a white flag and given up the answer. If Aristotle had known my mother, he might have tweaked his theory: nature abhors a silence.

“Mary is a Grand old Name”

Mary Marguerite Dearing Gilbert Dekarske, my grandmother, was born in 1890. This was shortly before George M. Cohan wrote his famous song. If he’d have known her, he might have written Mary is a Grand Old Dame. She was admitted to the world the same year Idaho and Wyoming were admitted to the Union. She preceded the gasoline-powered car. Ellis island was not yet processing immigrants. The president who reigned over her home in Michigan (and the other 41 states) was Benjamin Harrison. She lived until 1984, pre-car to post-moon landing. She couldn’t vote until she was thirty but lived to see nearby Michigan coeds burning bras on the Diagonal. She rolled with it.

Grandma Mary and Aunt Ellie plowing

Mary was not a delicate rose. She was a big, sturdy girl. When she hung her bloomers on the line, we thought the sun had gone behind a cloud. She drove a team of horses to plow fields on the farm on North Territorial Road near Chelsea, Michigan. She raised four children without plumbing nor electricity, sending them off on horseback to Pumpkin College, a country school. She married a Scottish immigrant, and they toughed out a life without luxury and without security.

Women who had a rough marriage in the ‘40s just had to suck it up. Divorce was scandalous. My grandma forgot to read that chapter in the marriage handbook. She ran off with the hired man and married him. He was a very congenial fellow and of a stature that rivaled Mary’s. My sister and I recall one weekend when they came to visit and went upstairs to bed. The bed was in the hallway. It had an uncomfortable compressed mattress that sat on metal rails. Soon after they said their goodnights, we heard a huge crack! and then a crash coming from upstairs followed by their hysterical laughter. The portly couple had bent the bed rails and ridden the mattress down to the floor. My dad had quite a time extricating them. Herm and Mary lived in a third-floor tenement in Detroit. When we visited, we could see her bloomers hanging out to dry, now from the railing on the exterior staircase. Lucky it was in the pre-HOA era.

Mary was a big girl (with my dad and Aunt Mary)

Mary took care of her daughter who had MS for years in their Ann arbor home. They watched soaps and played euchre. A portrait of the Kennedys hung above the couch, as it did in many homes. It hung between two strange parrot paintings and a framed, embroidered poem:

“You don’t have to thank us

or laugh at our jokes.

Sit deep and come often,

you’re one of the folks.”

Grandma loved to fish, and bluegills feared her. She was wicked at cards, and it was a good thing, because she was not such a gracious loser. She was never happier than when one of us brought over a new great-grandchild for her to hold. Mary was not a scratchy, bony grandma. A baby would just sink into her as though her house dress were full of whipped cream. She had a strange little lullaby she always sang to babies as she rocked them. The words were “dy dee, dy dee, dy dee, dy….” but the babies seemed to understand. As the kids got older, Grandma could not stand it when we scolded them. When my older sister was a child and visited her in Detroit, there were lemon pies on the table. My sister licked off all the meringue, but she was not chastised. Grandma simply replaced the meringue before company arrived. How lucky to have someone who was always tickled to see you and thought you could do no wrong. How lucky to eat lemon pie without knowing its history . . .

My dad (eldest child and only son) and my grandma were not effusive people, but it was clear they had a mutual admiration society with two members. I consider the timing of their deaths to be one of our family’s luckiest moments. As we were preparing to go to Grandma’s funeral, my dad died after a long illness. Neither knew of the other’s death. They took their last breaths without suffering the loss of  the other.

And now, in my new little house, I have the Grandma Mary room. Her house number is on the door–928 Rose Drive. The hooked rug has pink roses as does the wallpaper border. There’s a chenille bedspread, some depression glass, and many family photos. She wasn’t the kind of grandma you want to forget.

WELL DONE, GOOD AND USELESS SERVANT

             No matter what AARP claims, eventually we turn into a pile of unusual skin formations and obsolescent skills. Their magazine shows “mature” folks, thin and tan, leaning off the edge of a sailboat, reeling in lines and smiling. We all know those spiffy deck shoes are hiding bunions like radishes and heel skin they have to attack with a cheese grater. We can try to keep up, but a three-year-old can convert document formats faster than we can pull on our socks. It’s not just a matter of losing physical prowess. Many skills I have valued my entire life have lost their value in society. 

In country school, cursive penmanship was a subject equal in stature to math, language, and social studies. We had workbooks with two solid lines and a dotted line in the center. We drew hundreds of miles of loops and slanted lines. Capital letters could never extend beyond the line nor fail to reach it. Small case letters reached the dotted line in the center. Angles had to be consistent.  I worked a long time on making the W in my name more dramatic than a round, squat, common sort of letter. And now, I hear people saying cursive writing is obsolete and will not be taught any more. I see younger people with claws awkwardly clenched over the top of a pen, printing like we did on the back of a Valentines card in second grade. We’ve gone from appreciating “a beautiful hand” to tapping away on screens with our opposable thumbs, a skill we share with apes, some frogs, koalas, pandas, possums, opossums, and even some birds. When you get the mail, as you sift through catalogues, flyers from realtors, grocery coupons and such, if there’s a handwritten letter, how fast do you drop the other stuff and open it? As my friend Judi often says, “Sigh.”

            Studying grammar made the world and my brain more orderly. In grade school, we raced to diagram sentences. By sixth grade, we were challenging one another with the most complex sentences we could invent, and the blackboards were covered with beautiful maps of our language. I will never stop twitching when I hear  “fewer” and “less” misused. I drive by billboards that make me want to scream; the world has abandoned adverbs. “Think uncommon” a university tells potential students racing down the interstate. I am aware of the prejudices that accompany my assumptions when I hear someone butchering the language. To me, proper grammar is like a sock drawer with socks properly paired as opposed to tangled with some “forever singles” and a couple of rogue knee-highs.

            When I learned to drive, I  crawled around our tiny town with its one stop light with a death grip on the steering wheel. There was no power steering, and the car was a stick shift. Unfortunately, the test for my license took place in busy Ann Arbor at 5:00 pm on a Friday. First, I turned right out of the left lane. Then, I turned left out of the center lane. The cop shook his head and looked sad. We were on Main Street, and I’d never seen such traffic and so many lanes. Then, he said, “Let’s parallel park.” I had never done that–just seen the diagram in my driver’s ed manual. The parking spot he chose was two inches longer than the car. I pulled even with the front car and slid right into the space on the first try. The surprised cop applauded. On the other hand, it took thirty minutes and approximately 300 turns of the wheel to get out of that spot. He gave me a mercy license. Now, I consider parallel parking one of my best talents; I can get in and out of a small place in one try with few exceptions. In college I had a $90 Studebaker Lark. The price was so reasonable because it did not have reverse. I’d pull even with the front car, and my roommate, Elaine, would get out and push me backwards as I steered into the parking place. I had to get it on the first try because Elaine was not interested in multiple attempts. And now? Now what do they do? Make self-parking cars! That’s an insult. Have they no pride? Pikers.

            How can I remain proud of my ability to rock a car out of any snowbank when even the most boring old-people cars are 4WD? How can I experience the thrill of building a gorgeous fire on the first try when you can toss in a noxious chemical block that explodes like the Chicago fire? No one cares if I can nurse along a tiny flame, nudging the kindling, gradually creating a slow-burning, glowing fire in the fireplace. And, few people bother writing letters when you can create something on the computer and simply personalize a few sentences at the end. Sigh, indeed.

            Things we older folks were proud of have fallen out of favor or become obsolete. It’s said that “pride goeth before the fall.” More like pride goeth, and then you fall.